Two Geese
Two Geese
Two geese have come to the French doors,
Their webbed feet acting like snowshoes,
Keeping them from sinking into the drift.
An old married couple who’ve ceased
Speaking to each other, everything
There is to say having been said.
She in her gray dress, he in his great coat.
Tottering along, tolerating one another.
He insisting they ought to just walk,
She murmuring they should take a cab.
They were given all they need by God.
I believe I wasn’t, which is why my coat
Is stuffed with their beautiful down.
Having nothing, they have nothing
To lose, only their bodies, capable
Of incredible feats of flight,
Their elegant necks, their nasally cries.
They must, at some base level, love
Each other, if only because each is
To the other the closest of their kind.
And surely they know joy, and will
Know grief when one dies first, as one must.
The snow, weighing them, finds them weightless.
I tell myself to try and be more like them,
Then go back to doing my taxes.